


An Ordinary Pocketwatch

by TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel



Series: A Time Lord in Baker Street [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF!John, Chameleon Arch, Fobwatch, Gen, Time Lords
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-28
Updated: 2012-05-28
Packaged: 2017-11-06 04:05:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel/pseuds/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most people tend to assume that John Watson is unremarkable and ordinary. Except that he isn’t, not really. Doctor Who crossover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Ordinary Pocketwatch

Most people make certain assumptions about John Watson.

He’s friendly, and empathic, wears horribly unfashionable jumpers and makes a great deal of tea, and is generally amiable.

Unremarkable. Ordinary.

Except that he isn’t, not really.

* * *

He doesn’t tell people, but shortly after John was born, he was adopted by his Mum and Dad.

When he was still pretty small and Harry and Dad were both out, John’s Mum once told him that she used to _travel_ with John’s biological father.

He was such a wonderful man, brilliant and wonderful, so when he turned up on their doorstep with all the right papers and a baby, how could she say no? They’d been trying for a sibling for Harry anyway, with little success, so why not?

Over the years John’s real parents dropped by occasionally, in a whirlwind of excitement and oddness and giddy laughter, baffling and fantastically strange before they were off on their own again, leaving John behind as danger and destruction and adventure chased after them, always nipping at their heels.

John loved his family, but meeting his biological parents always made him yearn for something _more_. Something that, maybe, he could have had if they had been willing to stop running, just a little, enough for John to learn to keep up and run with them when they went. 

It was hard not to resent them for that, and for the fact that they visited so infrequently, their mad life clearly more important than the son they’d shunted off onto someone else to raise.

The last time John saw them was when he was twenty-three yeas old. Sometimes he wonders if among all the running, they finally forgot him for good.

* * *

Eight facts about John Watson, in no particular order:

  1. He’s happiest when he’s running. Adrenaline gives him life, and without it existence is flat and dull. It’s not that John has a death wish, or anything. It’s just that life is never more precious than when it’s something you need to fight for, than when the blood sings in you veins and tells you you’re _alive_. People go on about how terrible and stressful it must have been in Afghanistan, but, honestly, it’s normal life that’s more likely to kill him. So when Sherlock Holmes offered John the chance to follow him into danger and an awful lot of running, John took it and never looked back.
  2. When John is really, truly angry, he doesn’t shout. Most people don’t realize that when John is at his most dangerous, he speaks in a calm, measured voice, logically and quietly, and his hands don’t shake at all. Most people don’t realize that when John speaks in that voice, there is only one piece of advice to follow: _run_.
  3. In certain circles John is known as Three Continents Watson, because he got a leg over on all of them. He’s also a crack shot and doesn’t hesitate to prove it when necessary. He thinks his mother would be proud.
  4. As a child, John once told Harry, “I like my jumpers, jumpers are cool.” There seems to be a general consensus that as a general rule, John is deluded about his fashion sense. John tolerates it, because deep down he knows that it’s the man who makes the clothes, not the other way around. In all the years of his life no one will ever succeed in persuading him otherwise.
  5. John has an innate sense of justice, of fairness, and a moral backbone of steel. But heaven help anyone he decides is a threat to the rest of humanity, because _principled_ is not the same as _pacifist_.
  6. John is a soldier, because he believes in fighting for other people, for truth, and justice. He’s also a doctor, because in the end, he wants to make people better. He’s well-aware of the dichotomy.
  7. Sometimes when John closes his eyes and concentrates, he can almost feel the world spinning. Also, he’s always had a serendipitous sense of timing. 
  8. The one thing that John takes with him everywhere and always has with him, even on the battlefield, is a battered old pocket-watch that his Mum gave him on his 16th birthday. He doesn’t think about the watch much, but putting it in his pocket every time he changes clothes is automatic for him, and sometimes he fleetingly thinks that the weight of it is comforting, somehow. Then, of course, he forgets all about it, because there are more important and interesting things in life than watches.



* * *

“Why do you put up with him?” Sally Donovan demands one day. She’s talking about Sherlock, of course. “Let him drag you into trouble and death and serial killers all the time. You’re so nice and normal.”

John thinks of his crazy, brilliant biological parents, and the way that nothing feels right unless danger is nipping at his heels.

“I’m really not.”

“Of course you aren’t,” Sherlock says impatiently, striding past to seize a piece of equipment from a forensics bloke who wasn’t expecting him to do so. _New_ , John thinks wryly. All the other forensics techs know better than to loosen their grip on their tools when Sherlock is around. “Your tolerance for things other people deem unacceptably far from social norms is unusually high, and you possess a powerful adrenalin addiction.”

Sherlock stalks back to the corpse, coat flaring dramatically behind him, and not for the first time John runs an involuntary comparison between his mother and father, and him and Sherlock.

A genius madman in a coat who collects danger wherever he goes, someone who follows him around shooting people who try to kill him and generally being the sensible one of the pair, and between them a life of endless running.

Of course John _sees_ the parallels, he’d just rather not.

_ “Your father is a genius,” his mother told him, the time John’s mad parents – because at ten years old that’s how he thinks of the two sets, the mad parents and the normal parents – stopped by and John’s mother took him out and taught him how to use a sidearm. “Which means that naturally, he’s a complete idiot.” _

_ “Lies,” said John’s father, “ridiculous lies. Don’t listen.” _

_ “So sometimes I have to rescue him,” John’s mother continued, ignoring the interruption, “or shoot the bad guys because he’s found something interesting or doesn’t believe in killing them.” _

_ “Rubbish,” John’s father said, looking offended and gangly. “I rescue  _ you _, I rescue you all the time. I’m rescue… you… man.”_

_ His voice trailed off as John and John’s mother stared at him. _

_ John’s mother shook her head and looked back at John. _

_ “Sweetie,” she said – and the look in her eyes was more tender than John had ever seen her show – “there are some very good people out there, but there are also some very bad ones. You’ll meet both. I’m teaching you this so that you’ll know how to deal with the bad ones.” _

_ “For the record, I still don’t approve,” John’s father grumbled. _

_ “Sweetie? Shut up. Now, John…” _

“What are you thinking about?” Sherlock asks John, frowning, and John clears his expression.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Sherlock sends him a look that says _do remember who you’re talking to, John, it’s obvious you’re lying,_ but fortunately the current case is more interesting right now than deducing John’s secrets, and Sherlock goes off into a lecture on everything he can tell from the body alone.

John finds himself smiling.

* * *

Things might never have changed, but then there was Moriarty.

Now John and Sherlock are here by the pool, explosives on the floor, snipers all around and a psychopath in a smart suit smiling at them.

They’re about to die, John knows.

For some reason, he thinks of the pocket-watch.

It’s a weird thing to think of, while Sherlock is playing a deadly game of solve-the-puzzle against a slight possibly-Irish criminal mastermind, but John’s instincts never let him down.

He pulls the watch out of his pocket and stares at it.

For the first time he really notices all the little details of the watch; how much heavier it is than it should be, all the detailed, confusing engraving-work across the case that looks pretty odd for decoration.

For some reason John can’t look away, his gut telling him that the sight in front of him is incredibly important.

_ Open the watch,  _ a tiny voice in his head orders.

John opens the watch.

* * *

Sherlock and Moriarty both spin around to stare in shock as John is engulfed in golden light.

When it disperses, John just sits there for a moment, before rolling his neck and shoulders like someone who’s been stuck in the same position too long. 

Then he gets to his feet, fob-watch snapping shut as he puts it back in his pocket, and stands perfectly steadily.

He calmly meets Sherlock and Moriarty’s astonished eyes.

His own are a deep, deep blue, and indescribably alien, and the expression in them is like light and fire and ice and John is _angry_.

John smiles pleasantly, but his eyes promise dark and terrible things.

“John?” Sherlock asks worriedly.

John looks at Moriarty, and sees that even he looks unnerved. 

Sherlock and Moriarty aren’t like most people. They aren’t blind. They see every little signal and sign in front of them.

As they look back at John, he knows they see enough to feel the beginnings of fear.

“You know,” John says in a mild, calm voice, the voice that means _run, run, RUN,_ “playing games with people’s lives? Bit not good.”

“What have you done?” Moriarty asks. He hates not being in control, and John has suddenly become a wild element he cannot predict. 

“My mother taught me how to shoot when I was ten,” John continues, like Moriarty hasn’t said a word. All of John’s earliest, infant memories have returned, and it turns out that his parents told him everything he needed to know, even if he couldn’t comprehend much at the time. “She told me that there are very good people in this world and very bad ones, and that she wanted me to know how to deal with the bad ones. Of course, she was wanted by pretty much every government in existence by that point, so I’m not sure exactly what she based her judgment on.” 

“You’re adopted,” Sherlock breathes out.

“Oh, really?” Moriarty asks mockingly. “And how do you think you’re going to deal with me?”

John grins, and pulls his hand out of his pocket.

He’s holding his phone.

“I thought I’d leave it to the experts, actually.”

The next moment, there’s a bellow of “ _FREEZE!_ ” and the pool is suddenly swarming with soldiers in red berets.

John grins some more as Sherlock watches with bewildered eyes, apparently finally confronted with something beyond his processing abilities.

“John!” a voice exclaims, and John turns to see a tall man in a ridiculous coat and bow tie right before he’s hugged warmly.

John hugs back. It’s been almost twenty years. Whatever else he’s feeling, he’s also genuinely missed the man.

“Father.”

“Got your text,” John’s father explains, stepping back but leaving his hands on John’s shoulders in a way that John instantly knows is proud. “Felt it when you opened the watch, obviously.”

Sherlock is gaping. John is kind of enjoying the dumbfounded expression.

“Father, this is my flatmate, Sherlock Holmes,” he says, smiling. “Sherlock, this is my biological father.”

“Hello,” John’s father offers. Sherlock continues to stare without a word. “Doesn’t say much, does he?”

“I think it’s the shock,” John assures him.

At that, Sherlock makes an effort to pull himself together.

“At least you came by your sartorial taste honestly,” he mutters.

John glares indignantly, knowing how unfashionable his father’s current outfit actually is.

“Jumpers are cool,” he tells Sherlock.

“Very cool,” John’s father adds, nodding portentously.

“And here I was hoping you’d inherited my taste,” says a familiar voice, and John turns around to see his mother smiling at him.

She’s dressed to kill in a slinky red number and impossible heels. Possibly literally, John thinks, looking at the futuristic weapon in her right hand.

Somehow it goes perfectly with the rest of her ensemble.

John finds himself frowning at the heels.

“Do you know what those do to your feet and spine?” he demands.

His mother rolls her eyes.

“Oh, shut up, John.” She pulls him into a hug.

“You’re impossible,” Sherlock tells John. 

He sounds immensely pleased.

“We’re aliens,” John’s father explains. “Well, I’m an alien, and John’s one as well, obviously, genetic heritability and all that, and his mother is a really complicated story I can’t be bothered to go into. It wasn’t safe for John to grow up with us, so we turned him into a human and gave him to an old friend to raise.”

Sherlock doesn’t so much as blink.

“You aren’t lying. Interesting.”

He gives John a calculating, speculative sort of look, and oh _hell_ no.

“No experimenting on me,” John warns him.

“But, John–”

“No, Sherlock.”

John’s mother is looking between them with a kind of suggestive interest. She opens her mouth.

“No, we’re not together,” John sighs. “We’re just friends, honestly.”

“That’s good, friends are good,” John’s father advises.

Sherlock groans suddenly, and John looks around to see Mycroft approaching. Of course he is.

“Doctor,” Mycroft greets John’s father.

“Mycroft!” John’s father beams.

“And Professor River Song,” Mycroft says, his tone suggesting that he isn’t particularly pleased to see her. “Should I triple the security at all our museums and national monuments?”

John’s mother smiles flirtatiously. John is used to seeing her use that smile like a weapon, but still. Seeing it aimed at _Mycroft_ is a little unsettling.

“A lovely gesture, Mycroft, but I’m afraid we’re only here to visit our son.”

She glances fondly at John.

The look on Mycroft’s face as he puts two and two together is _priceless_. Shock, horror, alarm, chagrin and resignation flash across his face in quick succession. 

Finally he settles on looking perturbed.

“I see.” 

John meets Mycroft’s stare blandly. Sherlock, of course, is grinning broadly at his brother’s discomfiture at having missed something so important.

“You might have said something, Dr Watson.”

“Oh, he had no memory of it at all,” John’s mother says cheerfully. John can tell she’s enjoying this as much as Sherlock is. “Safest thing for him.”

Mycroft’s lips thin further. Sherlock watches avidly, no doubt storing this memory away in his brain in perfect detail.

“Quite.”

“Anyway,” John’s father claps his hands together, “the troublesome man in the nice suit is taken care of, U.N.I.T.’s cleaning things up here as we speak – how about getting a nice cup of tea?”

Sherlock gives him a suspicious stare.

“Does alien biology depend on regular infusions of tea, or is it merely an obsession?”

John’s father looks mildly thrown, and John has to repress a snort of laughter. John’s mother smiles at the question.

“Well no, not exactly, I mean it helps, all those tannins and free radicals, you know, revitalizing the–”

Sherlock turns to John.

“Does he always blather on like this?” Sherlock demands.

John can’t help giggling a bit, both at Sherlock’s question and his father’s affronted stare.

“Always,” John’s mother assures Sherlock, before John has time to answer. “You get used to it. He swears up and down that Time Lords don’t _require_ tea, but if he goes too long without it he becomes extremely grumpy and then depressed, so I suspect it has some kind of neurological effect he refuses to admit. Why do you ask?”

“It’s merely that John appears locked in an eternal circle of making and consuming tea,” Sherlock explains. “I wondered.”

Everyone turns to look at John, even Mycroft, who appears politely curious (John is utterly certain that Mycroft’s expression is a lie, and he is in fact mentally adding to a file on the physiological characteristics of Time Lords).

John scratches his head a bit. 

“I like tea,” he says lamely.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” John’s father agrees conspirationally. “Come along, River, John, Holmeses. Tea. In the TARDIS.”

There’s a minute flare of intense interest in Mycroft’s eyes, swiftly hidden. It doesn’t fool anyone.

“Very well,” he agrees demurely. “If you insist.”

John wonders if his father realises that inviting the Holmes brothers onto the TARDIS is possibly an unwise decision. Wait, what is he saying? His father loves unwise decisions. He probably knows _exactly_ what he’s doing.

“What?” Sherlock asks. “What’s a TARDIS?”

John can’t help but grin. His memories of the time-ship are old and confused and infantile, but that doesn’t matter.

“You’ll see,” he tells his friend. His father and mother are already walking away, Mycroft following behind them at a more dignified pace. “Trust me, it doesn’t get more interesting than the TARDIS.”

“Hurry up!” John’s father shouts back at them impatiently, still walking.

Sherlock glances over at him, before looking back at John. 

John gazes back, eyebrows raised, waiting.

Sherlock turns in a swirl of coat and goes striding in the direction of John’s parents and Mycroft.

“Come along, John!”

John does, laughing.

  



End file.
